


Just One Miracle

by charlottesweb



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 04 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottesweb/pseuds/charlottesweb
Summary: This is an alternate story to Season 4.  Sherlock must delve into the depths of John Watson's mind to save him.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock opened the door to Baker Street, knowing that Mrs. Hudson would be waiting for him. _She’ll want to know how he is—John._ His shoulders slumped.

Mrs. Hudson stood at the top of the steps. “Sherlock, how is he?”

“Not good. He’s still rambling on about Mary, a baby, and my psychotic third sibling.”

“But you don’t have another sibling, do you?”

“No, John has clearly gone insane.”

Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her eyes. “Oh Sherlock, don’t say such things.”

“John, has gone off the deep end and it’s all my fault. I should have let him known I wasn’t dead.”

Mrs. Hudson laid a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, dear, that would have been ideal. John was never the same after that terrible day. He took your suicide so hard, blamed himself for not seeing the signs.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He walked over to the fireplace put a piece of paper on it, then stuck a knife through it.

“What’s that dear?”

“John’s diagnosis.” Then he collapsed in his chair, looking at the empty one opposite him.

“Sherlock, who is Mary again?”

Sherlock looked up at her in irritation. “Some nurse at the hospital that he took a fancy to. He claims that she was shot and that they had a child together.”

“Oh my, he really has gone off the deep end, hasn’t he? Oh, Sherlock, this is terrible. Well, at least he has the best of care in that private facility you have him in. Is there anything I can get you?”

Sherlock waved her off, not wanting to admit out loud that John’s diagnosis lay stabbed in a pile of unsolved cases and unanswered letters—dead letters. He then took a thumb drive out of his pocket, fingering it before he inserted in his laptop, but before the laptop powered up he had to put in a call to Mycroft.

Mycroft looked at the incoming call _. What had Sherlock gotten himself into now?_ He picked up the phone, smiling the condescending smile he always did when Sherlock called. “Yes, brother mine? What is it?”

“I need you to come around to Baker Street as soon as possible.”

“Why? I’m busy today. Can’t this wait?”

“No, and it’s something that can’t be discussed on the phone.”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Then he disconnected the call, looking down at the phone with a frown.

Sherlock lifted the lid of his laptop, knowing that once he accessed all the information on John Watson that he would be opening the equivalent of a Pandora’s box. He skimmed through all the information regarding John’s childhood, his military service, etc., until he came to the part about John’s breakdown. Then he closed his eyes, went to his mind palace, imagining what it must have been like.

**Sherlock’s Mind Palace Subject: John Watson. Deductions: The nature of John’s Breakdown.**

John looked at his computer screen, drawing a blank. How could he write about Sherlock’s funeral to a bunch of strangers? How could he tell them of what Sherlock had meant to him? The loss was unbearable. It felt like a heavy stone upon his chest, threatening to crush him. He shut the lid to his laptop, letting his blog go along with everything else. The one thing that gave him comfort was keeping a journal.

**John’s Journal**

_I moved my things out of Baker Street today and rented a flat on the other side of town. Bills keep coming in. Some I pay and some I don’t. I know I’m drinking too much. My therapist suggested that it might help if I were to keep a private journal. She’s full of shit. It doesn’t help. I kept a blog at her suggestion and look where that got me. It brought me nothing but pain and misery. It brought me Sherlock, the epitome of pain and misery._

_It's been days since I’ve written. I got a job across town at a clinic. Sarah recommended me. She’s married now, probably thanking god that she dodged a bullet by dumping me. There’s a nurse there named Mary. I like her._

_I went on a date with Mary last week. She’s agreed to see me again; although I don’t know why. When I laugh with her it makes me feel more alone and I’m not sure why. Why? Why Sherlock, why?_

_Today was a bad day. A young man came in that looked so much like Sherlock that I almost lost it. I thought maybe it was all a trick and that he was still alive. Mary held my hand while I cried in the breakroom. She is quite lovely._

_I haven’t been able to sleep the last couple of nights. Mary and I went to bed together for the first time. I could have performed better._

_Mary broke up with me. She said she had a family matter to attend to. Maybe it’s because I told her that I couldn’t commit to anything right now, not while I am still grieving. She understood; at least that’s what she said. Then she just quit her job and left, but then that’s what people do. They leave, they die, they let you down._

_I went by St. Bart’s yesterday. I shouldn’t have gone. I spent the whole time pacing on the sidewalk, wondering when your blood washed away. I knelt, not to pray, but to look for just a small drop of the precious fluid that leaked from your wounds that day. Precious, that’s a laugh. You thought nothing of the people who loved you, Sherlock. You’re a fucking loser. A police officer asked me to leave and that’s when the trouble started. I became enraged and lost all reason. I was told that I hit him. Jail, not my favorite thing, but then I am so dead inside it hardly matters where I am anymore. The magistrate felt sorry for me, I could tell. I got sentenced to anger management classes. They’re bullshit. I’m not angry. I’m grieving and I can’t seem to stop the fear and anxiety that plagues my every step. My boss looks at me funny and I think I’m getting fired. My pension check is late and I think that I’ve been cut off. I hear voices and my dreams are terrifying. The drugs they’ve given me have only made things worse. All I do is sit and do crosswords all day long and when I read my answers the lettering is off. Nothing makes sense._

_I got let go today._

Sherlock looked away from the computer screen. The entries stopped. The next day John got locked up in a facility. The police found him on the roof of St. Bart’s screaming ‘SHERLOCK, DON’T BE DEAD. PLEASE FOR ME, JUST ONE MORE FUCKING MIRACLE. JUST ONE.’

_John what did I do to you?_

I hear Mrs. Hudson greeting Mycroft. I wait until he enters the room, then before he can go on the defensive I ask him, “Did we have a sister?”


	2. The Day My Heart Burned

Mycroft looked down at his hands, attempting to evade the question. “Sherlock, it’s…

“Answer me.” Sherlock screamed.

Mycroft sighed, shivering when he glanced at the hearth. “Yes.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and he collapsed against his chair with a thud.

Mycroft smiled. “What no witty come back?”

“How come I don’t remember her?” he asked in a small voice.

“She died in a fire when you both were quite young.”

“Was she older or younger than us?”

Mycroft smoothed down the sleeves of his jacket, intent on an unscheduled grooming ritual. “She was seven years younger than I and one day younger than you.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and he leaned forward. “I had a twin? But it’s never twins.”

“Well, brother mine this time it was. You were born one day, then she was born a few hours later the next day. She was four years old when she perished.”

“Wait a minute, I remember things when I was four. How come I don’t remember her?” Mycroft walked over and sat down in John’s chair. “Get out of John’s chair.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sat down on the couch. “Do you remember our old estate, Musgrave?”

Sherlock put is fingers together and rested his chin on them. “No, I’ve driven by it several times, but I can’t remember it.”

“You’ve probably blocked it out. It was a terrible day.”

“Wait before we go any further was her name Eurus?”

Mycroft smiled. “No, that was my nickname for her. She was a terror, much worse than you. Her name was Sherrin Fordham Holmes.”

“Sherrinford,” Sherlock whispered, “that’s one of the things John keeps babbling on about. How does he know about my sister?”

“Who knows? After you supposed death, John was obsessed about digging into your past, anything that could help explain your actions that day. I gave him a crumb or two to keep him out of my hair, but I told him nothing about our sister. He must have found that out on his own. I suppose he can be quite clever when he chooses to.”

Sherlock jumped up from his chair and stood in front of Mycroft. “Don’t talk of John as if he were a pet. He is a decent, loyal, wise human being, and my friend. I miss him.”

Mycroft met Sherlock’s gaze with a challenging one of his own. “Then perhaps you should have treated him better.”

Sherlock’s eyes teared up and he looked away. “I miscalculated his devotion for me and my mistake has cost us both. I just wanted to keep him safe, you know?”

“You wanted to keep him safe or yourself?”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped and he sat down next to Mycroft, putting his head in his hands. “Tell me about the day Sherrin died.”

Mycroft’s expression assumed a faraway look, then looked straight ahead. “It was your fourth birthday. You had a friend over, his name was Victor. Sherrin was insanely jealous of him, complaining that you wouldn’t let her play with you two. We chalked it up as childhood rivalry. If only…Well, idle speculation won’t solve anything, will it? Sherrin wanted to play hide and go seek with you and Victor. The last time I saw the three of you, you were all racing up the stairs. The fire started sometime during the night.” Mycroft paused, inspecting his hands, then continued. “I awoke to the smell of smoke and father calling for us. The fire crew had arrived and I saw them carrying our unconscious mother out on a stretcher. Father collapsed at my feet. Before one of the firemen could grab me, I ran upstairs. Your room was engulfed in flames and I feared the worst. Then I looked in the hall. You and Sherrin lay on the floor. I reached you first. I could only carry one of you, so I grabbed you. By the time, I made it outside the entire house was in flames. It was later discovered that your room had been the source of the fire, started with matches, and Victor…Victor was trapped in the closet with a metal chair hooked underneath the door knob.”

Sherlock’s mouth felt dry and he wanted to weep, but he just sat there in silence. When he finally looked over at Mycroft, tears were coursing down his face and without a word he took his brother’s hand. A half-hour later, and that’s where Mrs. Hudson found them, frozen in terror like garden gnomes.

“Sherlock, Mycroft, what’s happened? Is it John? Is he?”

Sherlock dropped his brother’s ice cold hand. “It’s okay, Mrs. Hudson, John is still with us, but I have puzzles to solve, and things to remember. Now both of you get out.”

***

Sherlock made his way across town, melting into the darkness until he made it to his destination—a palm reader, a palm reader that owed him a favor. A red neon lit giant hand blinked outside a shabby building. He looked both ways, then made his way through the fog to the entrance. When his hand turned the knob a bell announced his arrival. A sullen looking girl looked at him with disinterest. Her dark make-up accentuated her deep resentment of everything and everyone around her. “What service do you want?” she asked then pointed to a sign listing the different services offered.

Sherlock looked past her painted black nails clicking against the counter to a room in the back.   “I need to speak to Angela.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “What service do you want?”

Sherlock ground his teeth. “Let me say this slowly so that even you can grasp it. I neeed to speeak to Angeeela now.”

The girl remained unimpressed. “She doesn’t just pop out here in a bottle.”

Sherlock wanted to kill the insolent bitch before him. “Tell her it’s Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, she’ll see me.”

The curtains behind the girl parted and a tall, blonde woman with sharp features came into the room. “Why Sherlock, what a pleasant surprise? What can I do for you?”

“I need you to help me remember something, or rather someone.”

Angela raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Indeed? That sounds delightful. Follow me.”

Sherlock brushed past the girl with a triumphal glare, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue. Angela led him to her office, gesturing for him to sit. Without any preamble, Sherlock rushed ahead with his request. “I want you to hypnotize me.”

“Sherlock, you know as well as I do that hypnotism doesn’t always work, especially with a mind as strong as yours.”

Sherlock smiled, taking a syringe out of his pocket. He held it up to the light, entranced by its gold colored contents. “Trust me I made this myself. With your help and the help of my chemical concoction I will remember anything and everything you suggest.”

Angela leaned forward, while Sherlock took his jacket off, rolled up his sleeve, thumping his arm until he found a blue vein, then he gave her one last lucid gaze just before he plunged the needle into the targeted blood vessel in front of him.


	3. Fire,Water,Ice

Sherlock closed his eyes, smiling when the drug coursed through his veins.

“Sherlock?” Angela’s voice drifted over to him.

“Yes,” he slurred back.

“I want you to concentrate on the sound of my voice, follow it, watch the flame from the candle I just lit, relax and let your mind be still.”

Sherlock fought to acquiesce, but was prisoner to the voices that whispered inside his head. The voices that plagued him every day. He couldn’t remember a day without their relentless assault on his peace of mind.

“Sherlock, don’t fight me relax.”

Sherlock’s body twitched in response, then went numb. The back of his neck and sides of his cheeks began to prickle. His lips buzzed and his hearing became more acute, nothing escaped its aural sweep of the room, the ticking of Angela’s watch, the traffic outside, the girl out front smacking her gum, and the sound of his own blood pumping through his ear drums. _I’m high, I’m high, now it’s time to fly._ He repeated his favorite mantra, until the only thing he was aware of was Angela’s soft voice, floating through his consciousness. _So gentle, like a silk scarf around my neck._

“Sherlock, since time is of the essence I need you to tell me what you see when you look around you. It is your fourth Birthday. Tell me, where are you?”

Sherlock moved back and forth in his chair. “I don’t know.”

“Sherlock, open your inner memory and tell me what you see.”

Sherlock reached up and felt his cheeks. “I’m walking upstairs,” he whispered.

“Are you alone?”

“No, I mean yes. I don’t know,” he whined in a childlike voice.

“Sherlock, you are safe, now tell me what you see.”

“I see steps, pictures, I see a child, a girl, I…I…”

“Where are you? Tell me Sherlock.”

“I’m at Musgrave. Oh God, no…I can’t.”

“Sherlock, tell me, unburden the evil that has entrenched your soul.”

“It’s my birthday, our birthday…

“Who Sherlock, tell me who else?”

“My…my sister. She looks like me, her eyes are dark but they see the battlefield like mine do. She is not on the side of angels. She is evil.”

“Sherlock, don’t speculate. Tell me why is she evil?”

“She…she made me kill my best friend, Victor.”

“How did she do that, Sherlock?”

“I want to prove that I am smarter than she. So, I play the game.”

“What game?”

“The East Wind game.”

“Tell me about the game.”

“My sister is the east wind, she is fire, Mycroft is ice and I am water. We play sort of a rock, paper, scissors game but with the elements. That day Mycroft didn’t want to play. Sherrin had me tie Victor up and then put him in my closet. She left clues as to why, but I don’t get them. I am too stupid.”

“Avoid judgements, Sherlock, tell me what happened next?”

“I couldn’t figure out why Victor was taken prisoner. I lost. The last thing I remember is her, setting fire to the curtains in my room. I beg her to let Victor out, but she puts a chair under the doorknob. Smoke fills the room and I can hear her laughing. I am fire and water is gone. She sings it over and over.”

“Sherlock, it’s alright you are safe. When I count to three you will open your eyes, remembering everything. One, two, three…”

Sherlock opened his eyes. “I remember her. It’s my fault Victor died. He burned because of me.”

“Sherlock, did you ever find out what her puzzle was?”

“No, and it has plagued me ever since.”

“Sherlock, your sister was insane—psychotic. Have you ever considered the possibility that there never was a solution? Perhaps, she wanted to torment you. In that case, there was no way you could have saved Victor.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. “I could have saved him by ignoring him. I could have saved him by terminating our friendship. I knew she hated Victor. I just didn’t know how much. In any case, I was the one who tied him up.”

Angela reached over and took his hand. “You couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault.”

Sherlock nodded, then jumped up out of the chair, swaying a little. He pressed his hands against the side of his face. “I have to go.”

“You don’t look well, at least let me call you a cab.”

Sherlock laughed. “I’m a cab.” He then pulled out his phone, dropping it several times when his shaking fingers refused to grip its slick surface. When he finally grasped its illusive square shape, he pulled up his contacts, selecting Mycroft’s name, then he texted: **Mycroft, I’m in trouble come and get me. The list is in my top pocket. Fire has won, water is gone, the only thing left is dry scorched earth.** Then he sat down on the ground and waited.

When Mycroft came in through the front door, Sherlock was gazing into space, his pupils two small black points in a sea of green. He bent down, retrieving the list, then closed his eyes. _Oh Sherlock, what have you done now?_

When Mycroft picked him up, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his brother’s neck, resting his whiskered cheek against Mycroft’s smooth one. “Ice,” he whispered, then surrendered to peaceful oblivion.

Several Days Later

It was the same old routine, in rehab, out of rehab. _I’ll play the game just to get out of here,_ Sherlock thought. _Then when I get out I will end this once and for all. If I can’t bring John back, I will put an end to our suffering. I will poison us both._ The thought was shocking, but the more he thought about it the more he became intrigued with the idea. _Water will be victorious, when we both die in each other’s arms. If I can solve the puzzle we will both live, if not then I will take John in my arms, cradling him while he both drown in a sea of passion that will climax, while we penetrate each other’s bodies, then ebb once we are both spent. He will never know the rigors of death, just a blissful release when he orgasms, spilling his seed against my decaying flesh. Wow, I guess I am a drama queen after all._ Then he slept, preparing himself to fight his last battle with the east wind—fire.


	4. Sertraline Smile

Sherlock awoke with a sense of peace. He would be released from hospital today. He would play the game, the contrite brother for Mycroft, the loveable tenant for Mrs. Hudson, and the evasive friend to Molly, all so he could accomplish his real goal—the kidnapping of John. John and he would escape to a small country estate that had been deeded to him lieu of a fee and John would get better or they would both die. With the help of Wiggins, he procured a burner phone, a full chemistry set and the drugs he would need to tailor an anti-depressant, specifically to fit John’s needs. The only thing on his list that was missing was a therapist. _John likes women therapists, but how do I find one that is willing to live in the middle of nowhere and how do I know she won’t report us?_

Mrs. Hudson watched Sherlock, while he rested his chin upon his slim prayer positioned fingers. “He’s up to something,” she whispered to Molly.

Molly nodded. “He’s clean and for all intents and purposes healthy. Well, as healthy as Sherlock gets, but he does seem to be a bit off.” Then they both studied him again.

“It’s like he’s plotting something,” Mrs. Hudson whispered back.

Molly’s brow furrowed and she chewed on her nails. “Has he been to see John since he was discharged?”

“No, and that’s odd, don’t you think?” Mrs. Hudson asked while she searched the kitchen for errant tea cups.

Molly looked back at her. “Yes, very.” _Oh, Sherlock what are you up to?_

When Sherlock looked around, finally noticing his surroundings, it was dusk outside. “Molly, Mrs. Hudson, I’m off to see John.”

When he peeked into the kitchen to ascertain why no one had answered him, the room was empty. _Hmm, I must have been out of it for hours. I best get to center before it closes._ He then got up from his chair and stretched, looking around the room with a sense of nostalgia. _It will be awhile before we’re back at Baker Street, perhaps never. Mrs. Hudson has been paid up for a year, with strict instructions not to touch anything, or to tidy up._ He then looked around the room once more, before grabbing his violin, coat, and hat, blending into the elements once he shut the door of 221b Baker Street.

***

Sherlock took John’s arm, leading him outside on the pretext of playing the violin. He clung to Sherlock’s arm, allowing himself to be led to a bench where he sat down with a thud, out of breath. “Sherlock, would have gotten on to me about letting myself get out of shape. He would say, ‘John, keep up. I won’t be seen around town with an old man that can’t keep up.’ Yes, that’s what he’d say, if…if he were still here.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands, setting the violin case on the ground between them, then leaning his head against John’s shoulder. “But I am here, John.”

John looked up at him, with a sertraline induced smile. “Of course, you are.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, imagining the last movement of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. The rousing tempo kept him alert and calm. “John, I need you to take my hand.” John looked up at him and complied. “Now keep your eyes fixed on me.”

John’s eyes widened and his face turned a shade paler. “No, nope, you’re going to jump, but you wouldn’t do that to me, would you Sherlock? You wouldn’t do that because you’re my friend and friends don’t do things like that to each other.”

Sherlock brushed away a tear, that slid down his cheek. “No, friends don’t do that to each other. Now come with me, John, please.”

He nodded, grasping Sherlock’s slender fingers in a tight clasp, then he stopped and smiled. “Sherlock, you look so real. I could swear you are with me.”

Sherlock put his lips to John’s ear. “Always, John, I am with you always.” Then he propelled them both to where Wiggins sat waiting in a black Land Rover.

Once they were inside the vehicle, Sherlock did some quick calculations on his phone, then pulled a red leather case from his jacket, filled up a syringe and pushed it with one gentle thrust into John’s neck. Sighing he threw his phone out the window. _Trace that Mycroft._ He then adjusted John’s body into a supine position, threading his fingers through the fine hair that cascaded across his forehead in feathered layers. _John…_

When they reached the house, Wiggins whistled. “Wow, is this what you call a small country home? It’s huge. I’m going to be bloody rich when you die.”

Sherlock pulled John from the back seat, gathering him in his arms, holding him tight against his chest. “Sssh, you’re going to wake John and by the way I never told you that I would leave so much as a schilling to you.”

Wiggin’s eyes bugged out a bit further than usual. “Ow, you big liar, you did too.”

Sherlock turned around in a circle, still holding John close, then he hissed, “I did not. Now get inside and I might let you try some of the goodies I’m making for John.”

Wiggins opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut, mumbling to himself while he walked down the gravel path to the front door. Once inside he whistled, then said, “Wow.”

Sherlock deposited John on a bed in a near-by room, then came back to where Wiggins stood. “If you whistle one more time, I will knock you out and cut your vocal chords.”

Wiggins plopped down on a chair. “Fine, then.”

Sherlock held out his hand. “Where is the phone you bought?” Wiggins dug in his pocket, then handed a small phone to him. He looked down at the small black flip phone. “What the hell is this?”

Wiggins folded his arms across his chest. “It’s the no-contract phone you asked for.”

Sherlock sighed, then peered at him like a cat does its prey. “This thing is a piece of crap and could barely be called a phone by anyone under, oh let’s say 100. It’s a pensioner’s phone for Christ’s sake.”

Wiggins picked at his shirt. “It’s all they had.”

Sherlock handed it back to him. “Well, it’s unacceptable, get me another.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere and I can’t drive.”

Sherlock ground his teeth, then snatched back the phone. “Fine.”

Wiggins got up and paced around. “I’m hungry. Is there a maid or butler than can fix us something to eat?”

“No, you’ll have to rustle us up something in the kitchen.”

“Me? I can’t cook.”

Sherlock made a point of inhaling, then exhaling in an exaggerated manner, then he spoke in clipped tones, accentuating each word. “Oh, for god’s sake, you can cook up a batch of meth in no time, now figure it out. The kitchen’s that way.” He then pointed in a vague gesture towards a hallway to their left.

After Wiggins left, he got up and went to check on John. He lay still in the exact place that Sherlock had placed him moments before. “John,” he whispered, then got into bed next to him, holding him close.


	5. Free Will or Not?

John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck, murmuring, “I miss the way you smell, the way you taste everything about you, wish you were naked in my arms.”

Sherlock took off his clothes, then slipped back into bed. “John, I’m here. You can smell me, taste me, I’m yours, plus I smoked some weed and you know how horny that makes me.”

John laughed. “I remember. I remember it all, Sherlock.”  Sherlock massaged the front of John’s jeans, until he moved his hand away. “Sherlock, I’m on so many pills, I couldn’t get hard if my life depended on it.” Sherlock tried again. “Not even a ghost of a chance, my specter.”

Sherlock sighed, “Fine, then go down on me, maybe that’ll convince you I’m here in the flesh.”

John rubbed his face in Sherlock’s nest of pubic hair, reveling in its moist softness. “God, I love your scent. It makes my mouth water.”

“I have just the thing that will quench your thirst, my darling, John.”

John chuckled in between licks. “See that proves your dead, you never called me darling John.”

Sherlock spread his legs further apart, then grabbed tuffs of John’s hair. “No, but I should have. I’ve fucked up. Please come back to me.”

John was too preoccupied by swallowing to answer. Sherlock pulsed in his mouth, until it was full, then lay back panting. _Please come to your senses, John. I would pray, if I thought it would do any good, but then who would I pray to, Eros?_

“Taste yourself,” John whispered, then placed his wet lips upon Sherlock’s dry one’s.

***

Sherlock made his way downstairs to where Wiggins lay passed out on the couch, an empty glass pipe lay on the floor. “Get up,” he growled, kicking his foot.

“What?” Wiggins whined.

“You smoked a whole bowl by yourself?”

“I was bored. There’s nothing to do.”

“Well, get up. We’re going to make John his first dose.”

Wiggins sighed. “Fine, then.”

“First, help me unload the supplies from the car.”

Sherlock brought in one box, then sat down, studying its contents. Wiggins set a couple of boxes next to his feet. “There should be five more, hurry up.”

“How come you get to sit there, while I have to bring in the boxes like some lackey?”

Sherlock set a beaker on a near-by table, then glared at him. “Because that’s what you are—the lackey, or would you rather be called the minion?”

“Ow, no need to be insulting, your majesty.”

Sherlock grinned when he left, then concentrated on setting up a first-rate lab. On one table, lay clear lab equipment, on the other lay black lab equipment. “So, why the two different colors?” Wiggins asked.

Sherlock grimaced. “You’re an idiot. Why should I tell you?”

“Because I’m the bloke that’s breaking the law to help you make the stuff.”

Sherlock sighed, then rolled his eyes. “Fine, the clear set is the anti-depressant I’m going to make for John and the black set is the one for the poison that I will make to kill us both if he doesn’t get better.”

Wiggins toasted him with a wine bottle. “Well, here’s hoping for black.”

Sherlock grabbed the bottle away from him. “Where did you get that?”

“From the wine cellar, while you were getting off with John.”

“That’s a bottle of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Romanee-Conti Grand Cru, Cote de Nuits, it’s worth around 8,000 pounds you twat.”

Wiggins shrugged. “Well, you’re thinking of offing yourself, so who cares?”

“Because it’s wasted on you.” Then Sherlock leaned back and drained the bottle.

Wiggins laughed. “Pretty smooth, huh?”

“What the hell would you know? Miscreant.” Then Sherlock sat down, when a wave of dizziness assailed him.

Wiggins smiled. “Well, it appears that we will be taking a rest, which was all part of my plan.”

“So, it would seem and what plan are you referring to?”

Wiggins looked smug. “Well, I knew you’d be pissed about the wine and you’d either drink the remainder down, or be too angry to work, either way I’d get my lie down. Elementary, eh?”

Sherlock sat down on the ground, knowing he was going to pass out any second. “You’re a proper genius you are.” Then his eyes fluttered shut.

***

Mrs. Hudson answered the door, admitting a grim looking Mycroft. “Are they here?”

“Who?”

“You know very well, who, Sherlock and John. It seems that my little brother has really done it this time. He’s stolen, John and thrown his phone away in a ditch. If he’s not here, that means he’s out there somewhere.”

Mrs. Hudson looked to where he gestured into thin air. “Well, you should be able to find them, right?”

Mycroft sighed. “If he’s gone off grid, then it will be almost impossible. He has bolt holes all over the world.”

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands. “Sherlock, what have you done, now?”

***

Sherlock looked over at Wiggins with hate. “It’s your fault that I have a ragging headache.”

“You drank the wine.”

“Of course, I didn’t want an 8,000 pound bottle going to waste.”

Wiggins shrugged. “You have free will. It’s not as if you’re a Calvinist.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. “You’re lucky I have a phone call, or I would have to kill you to prove you exist.”

“Ah an existentialist.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, then he took the call. After he powered off, he smiled. “Well, it seems we have a therapist for John.”

“Well, it seems as if the stars have predetermined it.”

“Shut up, Wiggins.”


	6. Black Lab

 

Sherlock looked at the woman who stood in front of him. She was almost as tall as he and though she was of a sturdy build, there was a fragility about her. She had loved and lost. He leaned forward. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

She pursed her lips. “I know who you are Mister Holmes, you’re famous.”

He smiled. “Yes, well I am one of a kind. You understand that the nature of your work here would be somewhat well below the radar.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You mean illegal.”

“Well, it depends on what you consider illegal, Doctor Shaw. My partner and best friend John Watson has been in care for the last year. He isn’t getting better. I have determined that it is a result of inadequate medication and substandard therapy. I’ve studied your record and it is impressive. Your advances in PTSD are remarkable and new. It’s too bad you fell in love with a patient and that you had an affair with said patient and then said patient committed suicide after you lost your medical license. What a waste of a once brilliant career.”

Doctor Shaw stood up. Her lips were ashen and her hands shook. “I don’t need this. Good day, Mister Holmes.”

He rushed after her. “Wait, I’m sorry, please I need your…help.” Then he handed her a folder. “Please.”

She took the file, sat down and began to read. After a few moments, she looked up at him. “So, you jump off a roof, pretend to die, traumatizing the man you supposedly love, then expect him to bounce back? Has he tried to suicide?”

“Yes.” Then he looked down at his own shaking hands.

“You said you have a chemical drug in mind for him? Let me see the composition.”

He grabbed his laptop and handed it to her. She studied the screen, then looked up at him. “This is unusual but it could work, but without a PET scan I would have no idea whether your formula would do him more harm than good.”

Wiggins came into the room. “Ah, Sherlock’s thought of everything he has, he has a machine that can do that.”

“You have a CT scanner?”

 “Yes.”

Wiggins nodded. “Oh, he’s bloody rich he is and I get all his stuff when he dies.”

Doctor Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “What’s he talking about?”

“Nothing, he’s an idiot—a minion. So, are you interested in taking the job?”

“I want to see the patient.”

He nodded, pinching Wiggins on the arm when they left room. “Oy, that hurt.”

They made their way up the stairs, then he stopped before a door and knocked. “John, I have someone here to see you.” John gave them a blank stare, until he took him in his arms. “John, this is Doctor Shaw, your new therapist.” He then looked up at her with an expression in his eyes that few had witnessed—desperation. “So, can we count on you?”

Doctor Shaw looked from one to the other, then sighed. “Yes, I’ll attempt to treat him, but at the first sign this new drug of yours is going south, I will report you.”

He kissed John on the side of the cheek then smiled. “Fine, I’ll draw up a payment of contract.”

John smiled back at him. “I’ll be seeing you, Sherlock.”

He squeezed his hand. “That you will, John.”

After they left the room, Doctor Shaw looked at him. “So, John thinks you are a figment of his imagination—a ghost?

“Yes,” he whispered.

***

Sherlock made his way downstairs to where Wiggins sat. “Come on Wiggins, time to mix up a potion, while the good Doctor attends to John.”

“Hoy, which lab set?”

“The black.” Then he went to a cupboard and put on a black lab coat. “Come Wiggins, we have a potion to concoct.”

“How come I don’t get a fancy lab coat?”

“Because you’re the minion.”

“You know it’s times like these, that makes me hope that John doesn’t get better.”

“You say anything like that again and I will gut you where you stand,” Sherlock hissed.

Wiggins backed up. “Fine, but I’m starting to feel underappreciated.”

“Oh, quit sniveling and get me the strychnine.”

Wiggins bowed. “Yes, your liege.”

***

John looked at the woman before him. He liked her better than the other therapists he had in the past, but there was something about her—a secret.

“Now John, tell me why you don’t believe that Sherlock is alive and well?”

He shifted in his chair. “Because…I saw…him jump. There was blood everywhere—everywhere. God, it was horrendous.” He then started to shake.

“John, let’s talk about something else. How is your blog going?”

He looked confused. “My blog? I don’t write in it anymore. What’s the point?”

“Perhaps, you can keep a personal blog about your experiences with Sherlock.”

“A personal blog? You mean like a diary? That sounds a little girly.”

Doctor Shaw smiled. “I’m not asking you to write about puberty or your first pimple. I’m asking you to write about…”

He smirked. “You know that reminds me about something Sherlock asked me one time. Do you know what he asked me?” Tears were running down his face while he laughed. “He asked me…asked me…when I got my first pubic hair right in the middle of a crowd of people. It had nothing to do with what we were talking about. I was outraged, but then that was Sherlock—outlandish and utterly wonderful. Yeah, that was my wonderful Sherlock—my idiot—my annoying dickhead.” Then the laughter died his throat, replaced by tears. “I miss him so much. I begged him not to be dead—just one more miracle. Do you know something? I think I have a daughter named Rosie, but then maybe I don’t. I’m confused. We…need to stop…just stop. SHERLOCK…”  Then he sank to the floor.

Sherlock burst through the door, gathering him in his arms. “It’s okay, John, I’m here. Ssh, please, don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“Sherlock, my ghost, you keep me from being alone.”

Sherlock looked back at Doctor Shaw. “After I get him settled, we need to talk.”


	7. To Sleep Perchance to Dream

Sherlock sat hunched over his laptop, reading through county record after county record, muttering. Then he stopped, leaned forward and frowned.

“What is it?

“Wiggins, shut up, I’m concentrating.”

“Wiggins, shut up. Wiggins, get me this. Wiggins get me that. Wiggins clean up John’s vomit…”

He looked over at Wiggins and narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t shut up. I’ll shoot you.”

Wiggins looked at him, then folded his arms across his chest. “Fine, what did you find?”

“Mary Morstan, was killed during a shoot-out in a grocery store.”

“Who’s that again?”

“I thought I told you to shut-up.”

“You did, but how else am I supposed to know what’s going on?”

“Mary Morstan, was a nurse John dated after I was dead, well, fake-dead. They went on three or four dates and then she quit her job and disappeared.”

“So, John didn’t get off with her?”

“No, according to John, they fucked like rabbits, then she disappeared.”

“Hmm, he must have been bad in bed.”

“John, is not bad in bed. If she disappeared, it was for another reason.” He then leaned his chin against his fingers. “Mary quit because she was pregnant.”

“So, Doctor Watson is a daddy?”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. “That is a distinct possibility.

“Hmm, I wonder what happened to the baby?”

“Per the records, she wasn’t with Mary on the day of the shooting. It appears she’s now in foster care and her name is…Rosie.”

Wiggins looked at him with wide eyes. “He’s always going on about baby Rosie.”

“Shut up. I’m looking through the county birth records now.” He took a deep breath.

“Well?”

“She listed the father as John Watson.”

“He must have known about her before he went around the bend, then.”

“John, is not around the bend. His mind is just overtaxed, right now.”

“Oy, because you bloody jumped off a roof in front of him. Well, at least we know he moved on. After all you’re not a very reliable friend or lover, are you?”

He ran across the room and grabbed Wiggins by the throat. “Shut up, just shut the fuck up before I squeeze the life out of you.” Then he began to hurl whatever he could grab against the wall. The deafening noise of shattering plates, silverware, utensils and books filled the room when each object smashed against the wall. Wiggins cowered on the floor, with his hands, covering his ears.

A knock at the door, stopped the tirade. “What is it?” he screamed.

Doctor Shaw stepped into the room. “What’s going on here?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, composing himself. “Everything’s fine. We were just conducting an experiment.”

“Well, keep it down. John and I had to cut our therapy session short.”

“Is he stressed? I told you I didn’t want him overtaxed. I must go to him.”

“Sherlock, that is against my recommendations. I told you that he needs to remain isolated. He must come to grip with his feelings of loss before he can except that you are not a ghost.”

Sherlock looked at her, then pushed past. “I’m going to him. He needs me. We’ll need our privacy.”

“I’m beginning to wonder who the crazy one is.” Wiggins said, while he struggled to get up. Sherlock ignored him, but his parting words replayed themselves in his mind, while he made his way to John’s room.

When John noticed, him standing in the doorway, a smile lightened his morose features. “Sherlock.”

“John, it’s me, the east and you are the sun.”

“You always say that you’re not romantic, but here you are at my bedside quoting Shakespeare. By the way, I’m feeling better. You’ll be happy to know I got a boner in the shower today.”

“Really? What am I to deduce from that?” He then shivered when John laughed.

“Ghost or no ghost, it’s time for me to top. Though you aren’t with me, I want to feel you all around me. I want to hear you scream my name, like I screamed yours when you jumped.”

“John, I am here. Here, touch me.” Then he unbuttoned his shirt, allowing John to feel the alabaster skin that lay hidden beneath the purple soft fabric.

“Get you clothes off, now, then down on all fours.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Then they peeled back the layers of clothing that separated them. Sherlock’s head snapped back when he felt, his Doctor’s tongue, and fingers pulsing intermittingly inside him. T _ongue hot, fingers thick and strong, cold lube and finally oh god, cock. John’s huge cock fucking me. Fuck, he hasn’t given me time to relax._ “John, you need to give me time to adjust. I forgot how fucking big you are.”

“Okay, god, it’s hard to slow up. I forget you like it deep, yet gentle. You are such a contradiction, my sweet detective. In person, you’re cold and efficient. In the bedroom, you want to be made love to. Let me help you relax. I know your spot. You are the brain and I am the heart. Well, considered yourself warned. I’m fucking you from my heart— my soul and I’ll tunnel all the way to your massive intellect, connecting us together. I’ll bring you back from the dead.”

“John, god, John, that’s it, yes. JOHN…” His legs began to shake, when he felt John’s movements increase.  A few moments later, his trembling insides received John’s come, while his own shot on the crisp sheets beneath them. He let John roll him over on his back, then looked up into his blue eyes. “John,” he whispered.

“Sherlock,” John whispered back at him.

“I love you, John and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I knew what I was getting into when I allowed you to worm your way inside my soul. I miss you. I hated you for the longest time, but who am I to judge? How can I know the lifetime of stress and regret that you must have let overwhelm your fragility—the fragility of genius. I can’t imagine how you felt that day on the rooftop. I can only guess. But I’ll tell you one thing.”

“What?”

“You’re a pretty good fuck for a ghost.”

“But John, I’m not dead.”

“Ah, yes I know. “‘To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.’ Now, let’s sleep, Sherlock, then let’s dream. Rub, your fingers along my face until I fall asleep?”

Sherlock looked over at him. “Of course, and by the way, I’m impressed with your Shakespeare.”

“Mmm, that feels good, don’t stop.”

“Never John, I’ll never stop. Come hell or high water, I’ll never stop.”


	8. Heartbreak Grass

_John’s been in solitary for two weeks now. I miss him. I need him. I am lost without my blogger. I watch each session through a two-way mirror. He is making progress, but it rends my heart in two when he begs Doctor Shaw to bring back my ghost, pleading with her to not dose him with meds, just so that he can see me one more time. John, what have I done? I read your blog after I jumped, it was trite and practical, nothing about your true feelings bled through the pixelated words. I suppose communication is not either of our strong points. Bugger._

Sherlock slammed his laptop shut, but not before Wiggins had a peek at the screen. “So, you’re keeping an uncover blog, are you?”

“Mind your own business, minion.”

“Fine, Doctor Shaw wants to see you.”

“About what?”

“About John’s PET scan.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oy, I just did, you bloody tyrant.”

“You’d better not have been holding on to this information.”

“No, she just told me.”

“Fine.” Then he glared at Wiggins and left the room.

Doctor Shaw paced in front of the PET scan, attempting a smile when he looked at her.

“What is it? It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

She avoided his eyes. “No, not exactly.”

He felt his heart begin to pound. “Just tell me.” He listened while she explained what the different colors meant on the scan.

“So, you see that even though his synapses appear to be more productive than his previous scans, he’s still not functioning on all chemical levels.”

“So, I need to revisit the formulation?”

Doctor Shaw, shook her head. “Sherlock, you’re not listening. This is as good as it’s going to get for him.”

“What if I disappear out of his life again?”

Doctor Shaw smiled. “Sherlock, he was much worse off when you weren’t here. My recommendation is that you have him re-institutionalized and maybe with time he will recover. Mental health issues related to trauma are difficult to predict. I could recommend a few top-notch facilities that specialize in his type of condition.” She then laid a hand on his arm. “You really have tried your best and the formulas you have created are quite inventive and should be submitted to a pharmaceutical company for further study. It could make a difference for someone else.”

He dislodged his arm from her grasp, then nodded. “Fine, Doctor, thank you for your help. I will send a wire to your account. Your services are no longer required.”

“But…”

“Thank you and good day, Doctor.” Then he turned his back on her and went in search of Wiggins.

“WIGGINS.”

“Ow, what is it? I was just going to read an interesting article.”

“Stop, you were looking at porn and we both know it. I need you in the lab.”

Sherlock look a deep breath when they reached their destination. “I love the smell of chemicals. Now Wiggins, hand me my black coat and destroy the batch of strychnine. I have something far more interesting in mind. Put some gloves on and go to the cabinet and hand me the herb container with Chinese writing on it.”

“Ow, I don’t read Chinese.”

“It’s the only container that isn’t in English, you twat.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“Just get it.”

Wiggins did as ordered, then handed him the container. “What’s in it?”

“Gelsemium.”

“Oy, what’s that?”

“Heartbreak grass.”

“What’s heartbreak grass?”

“A very poisonous herb from the East.”

“And who are we going to poison?”

“Me.”

“You’re off your bloody nut, you are, but okay.”

“Ah, Wiggins I will miss you. Now hurry get me the black beakers, the game is definitely afoot.”

***

Sherlock knocked on the door to John’s room and his heart beat faster, when he called, “Come in.”

He stood before him, smiling when the sun glinted off his golden hair. “John, I’ve come to give you your medicine.”

“You mean you’ve come to poison me?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because it was always a fantasy of yours.”

“Ah, my clever Doctor, you have nothing to fear. I’m injecting the medicine into myself as well.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re both sick, John.”

John looked at him and laughed. “Fresh poison each week?”

Sherlock nuzzled his neck. “This stuff will take you to Church and you’ll be glad of the journey.”

Then he rolled up his sleeve, and injected the golden liquid into a vein. “Okay, John, your turn now.”

After he injected him he kissed the spot on his arm. “Now, I’m going to give you some edible cannabis, it will help with the nausea.”

“The nausea?”

“Yes, an unfortunate side effect of the medication.”

John took the small piece of chocolate from him and sniffed it. “You’re turning me into a drug addict.”

“Oh, stop complaining, you know you love the thrill of the chase just as much as I. Now, trust me in a few days we will both be feeling…”

“Better?”

“No, nothing, no pain, no indecision, no fragility, no fear, it’ll be just you and me against the world, just like always.”

“So, we’ll be going back home?”

“Yes, John we will be going home?”

“To Baker Street?”

“To Baker Street, my love…Now, take your medicine.”

“Will you get me off?”

“Anything you want, John, just name it,” he whispered, in between the open-mouthed kisses he covered his chest with, letting his tongue encircle around a nipple until it hardened between his teeth in a small nub.

“Fuck, Sherlock, suck me off.”

“Fine, but first some music, Haydn’s Cello Concerto in D, the slow movement.”

“Classical? Why always classical?”

“Because, dearest John, music is the first outlet that I learned to express myself in. Every sweet note is my love song to you. You are the embodiment of this beautiful concerto,” he breathed, while he mouthed his way down John’s stomach, delighting, when the muscles twitched under his tongue. John pulled his hair, moving his head in time with the gentleness of the slow tempo, each movement timed to perfection, each lick a masterful technique that led to his Doctor’s climax, a salty liquid crescendo that he swallowed down with ease.   _Hard for me. Just the two of us, forever. Our last case—heartbreak grass._


	9. Home to Baker Street

Mycroft read the text then, read it again, swearing aloud. Then he punched in the number to emergency services.

***

Sherlock heard the sirens, wondering whom they’d come for. _So, loud, bloody hell. Why can’t I just go back to sleep. My head aches._

“How much has he had?” a voice asked.

“Oy, I’m not sure,” Wiggins whined in reply.

Then came Mycroft’s voice clear and strong. “Did you say heartbreak grass? Oh, Jesus, Sherlock what have you done?”

_What needed to be done, brother mine, what needed to be done._

“We’re losing the other one. I’m not getting a pulse…”

_“I’ll follow you into the dark…”_

 

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Oh joy, another hospital,” he whispered.

“Well, you wouldn’t be in hospital so much, if you would quit doing stupid things, brother mine.”

“Good to see you too, Mycroft.”

Then his heart rate spiked. “John, is he…”

“He survived, no thanks to your meddling. What were you thinking?”

“He wasn’t getting better and I couldn’t bear his…his pain.”

“You mean you couldn’t bear the fact that you were the cause of it.”

He didn’t answer. Instead he looked around the room, surveying his surroundings. “This isn’t a standard medical facility. Where am I and where is John?”

“Don’t be ungrateful, Sherlock, I had to pull strings to get you both in here, or would you have been happier with a state run mental institution?”

“Mental institution? Why am I in a mental institution?”

“Oh, maybe because you poisoned yourself and your lover with an exotic poison, but not before you kidnapped said lover, drug him off to the country, where you preceded to hire a doctor with a revoked license. And please don’t get me started about the PET scans and the fact that you dosed your plaything with an untested drug. Do you know what the penalties are for administrating unapproved medications on a human subject? There’s enough evidence to put you away for years.”

He glared at Mycroft. “John, is not a plaything. He’s family. He means everything to me.”

“Then why didn’t you treat him better?”

“I don’t have to explain my actions to you. Now, where is he?”

“Resting in the bed next to you.”

He got up, ignoring the IV in his arm. His gown fell open when he stretched to reach John’s bedside. _Mooning you, brother mine._ “Fuck, I can’t reach him. I need to get this IV out of my arm.” Then before Mycroft could reach him, he eased the needle out and threw it to the ground, watching while the clear plastic tube slithered away in the opposite direction. He smoothed John’s hair back from his clammy forehead, until he opened his eyes. “Sherlock?”

“I’m here, John.”

“Have you really come to haunt me once more?”

“Yes, I follow you anywhere. I will fix this. I will fix everything.”

John grinned. “Of course, you will, you’re the world’s greatest consulting detective.”

***

Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson stood watching Sherlock and John through an observation window. “They look so happy,” Mrs. Hudson commented. “Where do you think, they are?”

“In each other’s mind palaces, I expect,” Mycroft answered.

“Will they come back to us?”

“I expect they will someday.”

**6 Months later**

Sherlock took John’s hand and led him to a waiting cab. “Come on, John, home to Baker Street.”

John leaned into him. “I still can’t get used to the fact that you are real. You are real, right?”

He blotted a sheen of sweat from John’s upper lip with his scarf. “Take a deep breath, John. You’re having a moment of reality disorientation. The Doctor said that would be normal. I’ve arranged for you to get a therapy dog. We have an appointment with the organization at the end of the week.”

John looked through the side window. “Sherlock, this isn’t the way home. Where are, we going?”

“We have to take a detour by Molly’s flat. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Please tell me that whatever it is, is alive.”

He smiled, then reached out and straightened John’s collar. “Very much so.”

When the cab came to a complete stop, he helped John out, wincing when he limped. _Psychosomatic limp, damn._

They both looked at Molly, while she played in the front with a small golden haired child. He watched John with a wistful smile on his face.

“Who’s this?” John asked, when Molly brought the child forward.

He smiled. “John, meet your daughter—Rosie.”

John looked back at him. “I have a daughter, but how…I don’t understand?”

“I would assume that she would have been conceived in the usual manner.”

John grimaced, then became pale. “Why didn’t the Doctor tell me?”

“She had plans to introduce the idea to you slowly. My plans differed.”

“Of course, they did.”

Molly stepped forward with Rosie in her arms. “Would you like to hold her?”

John smiled, then hobbled towards them. “Yes, of course.”

He watched John’s face transform when he took his daughter. “I must have found out about her before my break down.”

“Excellent deduction, John.” Then he walked over and sat down on the step next to Molly. “He already adores her. I don’t understand.”

Molly smiled at him. “You will, Sherlock, you will.”

“When the state turns her over to him, I suppose he’ll…leave…Baker Street.” He then pulled his coat around him as tight as it would go. _I am in my cocoon, no one can hurt me, no one can burn me, the east wind has no power._

“Sherlock?”

He looked up at him, brushing away a stray tear. “It’s bloody cold out here. It’s making my eyes water.”

John handed Rosie over to Molly, then traced another errant tear that had squeezed out of a duct and down his face. “You have such beautiful cheek bones, Irene was right about that. Sherlock, I would never leave Baker Street. Why would I? It’s home. You’re family and family sticks together, right?”

“Yes, always, John, always. It’s been you from the first day I set eyes on you. Was it my cheekbones that first got you to thinking about me, or was it my eyes. Molly, what do you think?”

Molly laughed. “It was the riding crop.”

He brushed a finger down her nose. “You are such a naughty girl. Now, we’ll let you get back to Lestrade. I can see him lurking just inside the door. If you’re going to do anything untoward, make sure you wear knee pads, your floors are hardwood. Speaking of hardwood, I’m taking my inspiration back to Baker Street. Come on hardwood.”

John laughed. “Sherlock, you’re a pig.”

“A soon to be stuffed pig?”

“Yes, with an apple that says, I.O.U.”

“Fine, off to Baker Street to get off, solve cases, just the two of us against the world, soon to be three. Come on, John, the game is on.”


End file.
